


Merle Dies at the End

by harpydora



Series: Merle Dies at the End [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM sort of, Blackrom, Blow Jobs, Canon-Compliant Sort Of, Frottage, Kismesissitude, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Tentacles, canon character death, dead dove do not eat, gross old men being gross, merle dies a lot, not ssc or rack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 14:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpydora/pseuds/harpydora
Summary: John's chair swivels back around to face him. John steeples his hands on the boardroom table as he leans forward. "Tell me, Merle: are you a masochist?"





	Merle Dies at the End

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I had the incredible honor of getting to hear episode 63 in the presence of HorribleThing and we both shared A Moment when everything with Merle and John happened and now, because of that, here is ~11.5k of Merle and John being shitty to each other while having sex that literally no one else in the fandom asked for. I'll see myself out of the fandom now.
> 
> I took a few liberties with canon, but this is largely compliant. Mostly.
> 
> Also what the fuck, why am I using the blackrom/kismessisitude tag so long after I've stopped writing Homestuck fic?

The tenth time Merle invokes the parley, John does not immediately burn him alive after they finish their exchange. Rather, he turns his back to Merle in favor of gazing out over the simulated sunset and sighs. "Merle, I have a question for you; an idle curiosity that has nothing to do with our little game here."

Merle narrows his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. They've been at this long enough for Merle to know that John has steered them off-script. After a moment, he says, "If I answer it, are you gonna let me ask you something?"

Even with his back turned, Merle can hear the smirk as John replies, "Perhaps. It depends entirely on how you respond—or don't—to my own inquiry. Does that seem fair?"

Despite himself, Merle considers it. John represents the singular manifestation of the drive behind their nemesis, but he's always composed himself as a reasonable—even pleasant—person. Aside from killing Merle once a year. That's a pretty big mark against him, actually. And yet, Merle can't help but be curious himself. Isn't he supposed to keep John talking as long as he can? Is it not possible for him to learn something useful even of John claims this isn't about their usual game?

"All right," Merle says at last. "What've you got?"

John's chair swivels back around to face him. John steeples his hands on the boardroom table as he leans forward. "Tell me, Merle: are you a masochist?"

To his credit, Merle manages not to splutter, but it's a near thing. He has to have misheard. "Am I a  _ what _ now?"

"A masochist," John repeats. His voice is as cool and measured as ever. There was no mistake in his phrasing, of that Merle could be certain. "It's a simple 'yes' or 'no' question. Do you derive pleasure from being given pain? I only ask because you are quite persistent, even when you know that I will certainly kill you." John leans back in the chair. "I just thought that perhaps you might get some other form of gratification from our little talks. And if that were to be the case, I thought I might offer you something a little more… intentional."

This time, Merle  _ does _ splutter as he pushes himself away from the table. His face heats up with his rising indignation. "What? No! I—The nerve—"

John sighs again, his good humor melting away to be replaced by an intense focus. "I'm not sure you're being honest with me, Merle. Pity. I'll give you a little more time to think it over."

He snaps his fingers and Merle burns.

*

The next few parleys proceed exactly as Merle expects them to: John answers a question, he answers a question, occasionally they engage in small-talk, and then Merle dies by fire. It's easy to write off the personal question John had asked. Easy to fall into the previous patterns as if nothing had happened.

At least until the sixteenth parley.

"Tell me again, Merle, how does this work?" John sweeps his hand in an expansive gesture meant to cover everything: the room, the table, the chairs, the sunset, the both of them. "This can even count as my question, if you like. I just have to know. How does this work? We can't leave until you release me or you die?"

"If you wanna blow your turn on  _ that, _ I'm not going to stop you," says Merle. "Yes, we're stuck here until we reach an accord or you kill me. That's how this works." He doesn't quite manage to keep the smug smirk off his face, but he figures he's earned it.

John nods slowly. "So, if, let's say, I chose not to kill you, we'd just stay here? Interesting…"

Merle's smirk turns into a full-blown, self-satisfied grin. "We've been doing his how long and you still don't have the rules down?"

John's own smile matches Merle's; surpasses it, even, in sheer weight of its smugness. "Oh, I think I understand the rules just fine. I was just wondering if you'd thought them through yourself. Neither of us can leave until, as you say, we reach an accord or I kill you. And I intend to do neither. There are other, more interesting things I would like to do."

Merle crosses his arms over his chest and slouches in his chair. The leather makes an unfortunate creaking noise that sort of ruins the moment. "Well, I hope you know how to play one-man chess because I'm not in the mood."

John's chuckle is low and dark and the sound of it sends a chill down Merle's spine. "I'm hardly just one man, but chess doesn't hold any appeal."

He pushes himself out of his seat and closes the distance between them in the blink of an eye.He bends so that his face is level with Merle's. He's so close that Merle could count each of John's eyelashes—they're surprisingly long—if he were so inclined. But Merle is absolutely not so inclined. And his throat definitely has  _ not _ gone dry, either.

John's breath is hot against Merle's cheek. His voice has gone rough in a way that Merle can't quite quantify, but which makes him want to sit up straight and square his shoulders. "Tell me, Merle—and please be honest, both with yourself  _ and _ with me—are you a masochist?"

Something about the closeness, about the way John holds his gaze, keeps Merle rooted in his chair. For a few moments, neither of them says a word and Merle barely breathes. His heart hammers in his chest so loud that he thinks John  _ has _ to hear it.

He wants to say 'what's your damage?' or 'what's it to you?' or 'fuck off,' or…  _ anything, _ really. Something's got to be better than the thick silence between them. Before he can think better of it, Merle says, "Well, I don't enjoy it when you kill me with fire, that's for damn sure."

John's lips twitch. "Ah, there we are." He leans forward until his lips are a hairsbreadth from Merle's ear. "Perhaps, then, we should try something different."

Merle makes a sound somewhere between a squawk and a yelp as John grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him out of his chair. His hands scrabble for something to hang on to and his fingers latch onto John's wrists.

John hefts Merle onto the edge of the long table and wedges himself between Merle's knees. Like this, John needs only bend down a few inches before their lips meet. The shock of it keeps Merle from flinching, from making noise, from pushing him away. His fingers go limp and fall away from John's wrists as John moves his hands up to hold Merle's face between them.

John is a vicious, hard, and unforgiving kisser. His lips are hot and unyielding, and, when Merle fails to open his mouth for John's tongue, John presses his thumbs into Merle's jaw to force it open. When Merle had once glanced at one of the romance novels Lucretia tended to read on worlds that had them, he'd seen the word 'plundered' in reference to kissing. He'd scoffed at it, of course, but now he feels he has a fair idea of what that author may have meant.

John is ruthless in the way he kisses; he leaves nothing untouched. He pulls back just enough to take Merle's bottom lip between his teeth, though Merle can't fathom that it's not already bruised. John makes an almost hungry noise in the back of his throat, and Merle swears he sees stars. For fuck's sake, how many cheesy romance metaphors does John plan to inflict on him?

Except, Merle realizes, the spots that cloud his vision aren't romantic at all. The heels of John's hands have been slowly digging into Merle's neck, applying steady pressure to Merle's jugular and carotid.

Everything goes black.

He returns to consciousness at the start of their next cycle, dazed and confused (and, though he will admit it to no one, a little disappointed). He brings his fingers to his mouth, as if there might be some lasting marks left there by the scrape of John's teeth.

There are none, of course.

He debriefs Lucretia as he always does, but he does not breathe a word of what transpired right before he died.

*

Merle takes a year off. It's Lucretia's idea, or that's what he tells himself. John's words echo in his mind: 'please be honest,' and he knows that he would've suggested it himself if she hadn't. He ministers to a group of kids who've never seen a dwarf before and mistake him for a weirdly hairy toddler (and who call Davenport a scrawny infant). They're no more polite when he's done, but he leaves them with Pan's blessings before the Hunger fails to take their world.

The next cycle's world is barren and they snatch up the Light of Creation in a few days. He tells himself it's only boredom that drives him to invoke the parley after just two months of doldrums, but he still hears John's voice over a year later: 'be honest.'

John greets him with a shit-eating grin that ratchets his normal level of smarm all the way up to infuriating shitheel levels. He taps a flashy watch on his left wrist with one finger. "You're late, Merle." Great and glorious Pan, Merle has never wanted to put his fist through someone's face more than he does in this very moment.

"What in the hell was  _ that _ all about?" he demands. "You can't—you can't just  _ do _ that!"

John crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. He raises one eyebrow. "Oh, I can't, can I? And what about you, running off in a tizzy and refusing to talk to me?"

"I'm not the one who  _ kissed you! _ " The words are out before Merle has even examined them. He sits there, very still, as if some part of him believes John won't hear them if he doesn't move. If he doesn't draw attention to himself.

But that's the rub. They're the only two things of note here. Merle is, in fact, the only reason there  _ is _ a 'here.' Both of John's eyebrows are raised now, and he favors Merle with a stare like how a cat looks at an injured mouse. "Ah," he says. "I see. Well, in that case, I offer my most sincere apol—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" Merle shouts. "You can't just kiss a guy like that and then get rid of him and not expect it to do… things!"

He knows as soon as he sees the quirk of John's mouth that this is the absolute wrong thing to say. No one, not even Barry or Magnus or Taako, has ever said anything wrong-er. Merle closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Pan grant him the strength not to break the glass and throw himself out one of these windows…

"What 'things' are you referring to, Merle?" says John. "Please, be honest. And…  _ specific. _ " He does something with his tongue and his lips and his voice, and by the time he's done, the word 'specific' sounds like the filthiest thing Merle has ever heard in all the worlds he's visited.

Merle deflates, his righteous anger turned into something far more tremulous by John's little trick. "For a guy who says shit like 'be honest,' you spend a lotta time avoiding saying anything worthwhile," he huffs.

"Is that so." It's not a question.

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Well then, let me say something worth your while," John purrs as he pushes himself ever-so-deliberately out of his chair. He stalks toward Merle, each movement measured and methodical, telegraphed over the entire distance between one end of the conference table and the other. John makes his position clear: whatever happens when he reaches Merle's side, Merle was the one who chose to wait for him. "You took issue with me kissing you and then removing you from my presence," he says. "So, tell me: what would you have said if I'd let you live?"

"I—" But Merle stops. He's not sure  _ what _ he would have said, beyond the initial exclamation of 'what the fuck?!' Though he does feel robbed of being able to even say  _ that _ in response. "I don't know," he finishes weakly, "but now we'll never find out, will we?"

John's grin is downright predatory. "Oh, I think we might." He slides up to Merle's chair, every motion languid and focused. He brushes Merle's cheek with the back of his hand as he leans forward. "Now," he breathes, "tell me truly if you don't want to know."

When he's editing events for Lucretia's journals, Merle will say that he doesn't understand the statement. But in the moment, he understands what John means, and he doesn't make any move to stop him.

John is still merciless. He kisses like he's the center of the universe and knows it. And on some level, he is. But he also kisses like he has all the time in the world, now. He cups Merle's jaw and tips his head back, and this time he waits until Merle decides he's ready to part his lips.

Without the shock paralyzing him, Merle can participate rather than just be a thing John acts upon. It's been a couple of cycles since he's gotten physically involved with anyone but he thinks he remembers what to do just fine. He grabs John's lapels and uses the leverage to deepen the kiss on  _ his _ terms. John doesn't exactly  _ yield, _ but he lets Merle explore his mouth without putting up much resistance.

When they finally break apart, Merle's breathless and John's impeccable suit is wrinkled from Merle's fingers. The barest hint of a flush colors John's cheeks, but it's the only indication that the kiss had an effect on him. It makes Merle want to punch him even more.

"Well, then, what do you say?" John asks, smugness dripping from every word.

Merle thinks about all the cutting responses he could give: 'I've had better,' or 'you kiss like an asshole,' or 'was that supposed to impress me?' But he knows that any of those will just egg John on. He settles on, "What's your deal, huh? Are you trying to scare me away by making passes at me? Because that's not gonna work. I've had to live with dos horny twins for the last few decades."

John throws back his head and  _ laughs. _ "Oh, Merle, don't you see?"

"All I see is a smug dick laughing at my expense," Merle grumbles.

"I'm not a lonely man," John says, his momentary humor fading away. "I contain multitudes. I never lack for company. And yet here you are, someone I can't quite ken and whose existence tends to…  _ vex _ me." His eyes narrow and the weight of his gaze keeps Merle pinned in his chair. "I would like to  _ understand _ you, Merle. I would like to know you, inside and out, and I would like to do this by mixing some pleasure with our business."

Merle tries to swallow, but he finds there's a lump in his throat. Finally, he manages, "And you want to do all that knowing with your tongue?"

John sighs. "I see that I will have to let you think about this proposal. I look forward to our next meeting. Please don't be late again." He cups Merle's face in both of his hands as if he plans to kiss him again.

He snaps Merle's neck.

Merle wakes up on the Starblaster.

"What did you learn?" Lucretia asks, hurrying to his side with one of her journals.

A lot, he doesn't say. Instead, he shakes his head. "Not a damn thing."

*

The next cycle is hectic: the world's inhabitants are hostile; Barry gets sacrificed to some sort of sea monster; Lup murders some of the locals; they can't find the Light of Creation. By the time the Hunger arrives, they're exhausted and miserable, and Merle has half a mind to thank John for obliterating the shitty little planet.

Which… fuck. He hasn't had the energy to spare on any thoughts about this cycle's parley, hasn't even had time to think about John's little 'proposal.' But Lucretia's fingers are on his elbow and she's giving him one of those soft, sad looks, and he knows that if he's going to invoke parley again, it has to be now.

Even though John, as such, doesn't exist until Merle pulls him into that quasi-liminal boardroom, he manages to exude an air of having waited for Merle to arrive. As if he's some patient, magnanimous guest. He looks more finely dressed, and there's a glow to his skin that Merle's never seen before.

When John acts like he's only just now noticed Merle's presence, he puts on a show of checking a pocketwatch (as if time means anything here at all). "I was beginning to think you'd stood me up, Merle."

"When you put it like that, I'm kinda wishing I did," Merle snapped.

"Oh, you wound me," John says, raising one hand to his chest in mock injury. He manages to hold the illusion for only a moment before a wicked grin blossoms on his face. "Perhaps I've misread you this entire time. Are you, in fact, a sadist?"

Merle nearly chokes. "What—?  _ No! _ No, I'm not! But if I say I'm a masochist will that get you to kill me faster so I don't have to have this conversation with you?"

The grin gets wider. "Only if you really want me to." And suddenly he's beside Merle, close enough for Merle to realize that he's wearing cologne this time. "I'm in a good mood. Be careful what you ask me because I'm likely to humor you." John reaches down and takes the top button of Merle's IPRE uniform jacket between his fingers.

"Oh. Oh no. We're  _ definitely _ not having this conversation," Merle says with dawning horror. He reaches up to smack John's hand away, but John takes that as an invitation to wrap his fingers around Merle's wrists instead. His grip is firm, just this side of being too tight.

"You've obviously had a lot on your mind since we met last," says John, pitching his voice low. "I imagine things were stressful. Your last year didn't go like you'd hoped. You're tense, Merle." He presses his free hand flat against Merle's sternum. "How about this: you don't have to divulge to me whether you're a masochist or a sadist. You just have to sit in this chair and allow me to provide a gesture of my goodwill. Then, if you enjoy the gift, we can discuss other… terms."

Merle squirms in his seat, but he's not sure if he's trying to get away or… not. His throat's dry when he speaks, "What, are we back on that whole 'knowing' me thing?"

"With my tongue, yes," John says.

He slides to his knees so smoothly that Merle has to wonder if he's practiced the move before.  _ That _ particular mental image makes Merle wheeze. It's not a thought he wants  _ or _ needs, and yet here he is, wondering what sort of guy John would be willing to go down on. (Other than clerics of Pan—fuck.)

John stops and quirks one eyebrow. "Yes?"

"It's just. Um." Merle coughs once to give him an excuse to hide his face behind his fist. "You don't really strike me as the type."

"I'm  _ legion, _ Merle," John says as if he's talking to a child. "Perhaps before I started on this path, I wasn't the type. But do you really think that, in all of the planes of existence, you are the first person to conceptualize of fellatio?"

Well, shit. "When you put it  _ that _ way…"

"Which, obviously, I do." John finally releases Merle's wrist, but only because the bozos designing the IPRE uniforms weren't kind enough to forego the standard button/zipper fly in favor of velcro. He's not half as perturbed by this fact as Merle is, though, and his fingers make quick work of it.

The air in the room is cool on Merle's hips as John hitches Merle's pants down. He pauses. "Huh. I would have taken you for a boxers man."

Merle flushes, the heat in his face at odds with the chill of the air. "Sometimes a guy's gotta let it all be free!" he says. "You don't like it, you don't gotta be here." For not the last time, Merle wonders if he can just fling himself out one of the windows, but decides against it. Dying with your pants around your knees isn't high on his list of ways to go.

John just hums noncommittally and cups Merle in one hand. He's not hard—not yet, at least—but that doesn't deter John in the slightest. He keeps one hand on Merle's hip as if to steady himself (or maybe hold Merle in place), while he uses his clever fingers to acquaint himself with Merle's cock.

"Dwarf physiology is so interesting," John murmurs. He gives Merle's balls a gentle squeeze that elicits a shiver. "Did you know," he continues, "that dwarves are one of the only humanoid races without a refractory period?" John wraps his fingers around Merle's hardening length and strokes him once, twice. "If you find my performance satisfactory, I'm sure we can take advantage of that little morsel of knowledge."

"Gettin'—ah—gettin' a little ahead of yourself, aren'tcha?" Merle asks, breathless. John runs the pad of his thumb over the head of Merle's cock almost distractedly. He hums again.

"Are you getting impatient? If there's somewhere else you need to be…"

The idea of dying with his pants around his knees  _ and _ half-hard is even less appealing to Merle than throwing himself out the window. "No! No, we're fine!" He huffs out a half-hearted chuckle. "Go on, go on, do your… thing." He gestures in the general direction of what's going on between his legs.

John snorts, but he doesn't stop his methodical hand movements. "Did you know that the average dwarven penis can grow up to half again its size in girth and length when engorged?" He smirks and glances down at his handiwork. "It would seem that your god—Pan, was it?—was very kind to you."

"Haven't heard any complaints," Merle says, though it's hard for him to keep his voice steady. He's got plenty of complaints of his own, however. Like how John keeps spouting off clinical facts while he's stroking Merle's cock to erection. Or how John keeps running his mouth instead of putting it to—what Merle had assumed, at least—was the intended purpose.

"Hmm. There is usually a first time for everything." John flashes a self-satisfied, indulgent grin that reminds Merle of all the times he's wanted to punch him in the face. "Of course, we can determine  _ that _ later. For the moment, I think it's best to focus on the acquisition of intimate knowledge of dwarven anatomy."

Despite his statement, John merely locks eyes with Merle, pinning him with an appraising gaze. Like Merle is a particularly interesting specimen and John is a scientist intent on studying him. The cool regard rankles; John offered to help Merle blow off some steam. Shouldn't he be a little more… into it? A little less disinterested? Merle's face is already hot from arousal, but frustration and a hint of humiliation jump into the mix. "Are you just messing with me?" Merle demands. 

John flashes a predatory smile. "Forgive me," he says, not sounding the least bit contrite. "I've let my curiosity get the better of me. I said you wouldn't have to divulge your preferences, and here I am prodding you anyway." Without breaking eye contact, John shifts his grip on Merle's shaft and lowers his head. "You have my  _ sincerest  _ apologies."

And then he takes the entirety of Merle's length into his mouth.

Merle groans, a guttural noise that starts low in his belly. John's demeanor may be cool, but his mouth is warm and slick and good gods he does  _ not _ have a gag reflex. He maintains eye contact until the angle of his neck makes it impossible, and, Pan help him, Merle can't help but find that  _ hot. _

Now that John isn't starting Merle down, his full attention goes to the task at hand. His approach to blowjobs is similar to his approach to kissing, but not quite the same. With kissing, he's forceful, not to be denied. With Merle's cock in his mouth (Merle is still in awe of his lack of gag reflex), he's only a little more restrained.

It's been a few cycles since Merle's had any company other than his own two hands, so the near-impeccable application of suction combined with John's deft tongue; the nails of his one hand digging into Merle's hip; his other hand stroking Merle's shaft as John bobs his head up, fondling his balls when he'd taken all of Merle into his mouth. John can't be brutal, but he is precise and unrelenting, and it's embarrassing how little time passes before Merle lets out a strangled moan as he comes in John's mouth.

John doesn't laugh. He doesn't smile. His expression remains the same: one of complete focus and concentration. And yet, through the haze of his orgasm, Merle can sense the smug satisfaction rolling off John in waves.

Merle has never felt less magnanimous in his afterglow than right now. He can't quite justify punching John in the face, especially not with his lips still locked around his cock, but he wants to just to try knocking the smug out of him. Merle settles for hissing, "Oh, fuck you," instead.

In response, the fingers at Merle's hip tighten, hold him pinned in that leather chair. John comes up, presumably for air, his face flushed with exertion, and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive-looking fancy shirt. He meets Merle's eyes again. "Is that an offer?"

John pushes himself to his feet, hand still lazily stroking Merle's length. He moves the hand pinning Merle's hips to brace himself on the arm of the chair and leans forward until his lips are just next to Merle's ear. "Is that what you would like, Merle? To  _ fuck _ me?" The 'fuck' is punctuated by a twist of John's wrist on the upstroke, and a gasp from Merle. "Would you enjoy seeing me prostrate before you, eager to be used as you see fit? Would you leave bruises? Would you fuck me hard enough for me to get carpet-burn on my hands and knees?"

The image John describes is clear as crystal in Merle's mind, a lewd tableau made even lewder by the way John runs his thumb over the head of Merle's cock while he paints it. John's breath comes in harsh pants and his voice is a low, gravelly thing that Merle realizes is only that way because of how John had just been using his throat. Merle groans at the thought.

John hums thoughtfully, as if Merle had said something substantial. "No, I think that as much as you might enjoy that, it isn't what you  _ want. _ " He chuckles, more to himself than at Merle. "No, I think that what you  _ really _ want is for me to bend you over this table and take you." His strokes grow a little harsher, less lackadaisical. "I wouldn't be gentle. I don't imagine you'd like that." Another twist of his wrist and a hard squeeze that pulls a ragged groan from Merle's throat. "But it wouldn't be quick, either. That would be far too easy. I feel like I've been too quick already, wouldn't you agree? Barely leaving you any time to… breathe."

The word sounds so  _ filthy _ rolling off John's tongue like this, and Merle can't help but imagine exactly what John is talking about. And, Pan help him, John's right. All Merle has to do is close his eyes and he can imagine it, John's weight bearing down on him, pressing him into that blasted boardroom table. Taking him apart with his fingers, with his tongue, fucking him so hard that there are bruises when he wakes up at the start of the next cycle… Fuck. Of their own accord, Merle's hips jerk to meet John's hand.

This draws another low chuckle from John that raises every hair on Merle's neck. "Yes, I thought so. Oh, Merle, I am so glad you're finally being honest with me." He stops his ministrations and stands straight. It takes all of Merle's self-control not to whine at the loss of contact. "Perhaps," John says, unknotting his tie and rolling up his sleeves, "now it's time for a little reciprocity. What do you say, Merle?"

He doesn't ask 'will it get your hand or your mouth back on my dick?' Instead, he goes with a vague, "Depends."

John flashes a smile, the sort of smile that he must have cultivated in his old career. "Ah, a good answer. I'm both glad to know that you still have your wits about you and disappointed to know that I didn't do as thorough a job as I'd hoped." The tie slides through his fingers and falls to the floor. "I've been conjecturing about you quite a bit. I thought it might be time to tell you a little bit about myself while you indulge me in some pleasure of my own. Are you familiar with the act of frottage, Merle?"

Merle snorts. "Hah! Are you kidding me? I have to share a ship with Taako. I've heard graphic descriptions of just about everything a guy can do with one or more dicks."

"Fantastic!" says John. His hands drop to his belt, and Merle can't quite drag his attention away from John's fingers as he unbuckles it. "I think you'll agree that this will work best with you straddling me rather than the other way around. It might also work best without  _ those. _ " He gestures at the uniform slacks bunched up near Merle's knees.

Somehow, despite having been the one with Merle's dick down his throat, he manages to make  _ Merle _ the one to feel self-conscious about his state of half-dress with that one syllable. "Is there still time to decide I'd rather headbutt you out the window instead?" Merle grumbles. But he pushes his pants the rest of the way down his legs and kicks them off to the side as John steps out of his polished brogues.

"It's never too late to decide you'd like to end our little 'chat,'" John says, "but I think we both agree that this is a far more pleasant way to pass the time. " His slacks join his shoes and tie, leaving him in his socks and shirttails and nothing else. For a man who'd given Merle a hard time about going commando, John was wearing very little underwear himself, and he was already half-hard.

The only defense Merle has for what he says is that he's had to spend the past several decades living with both Taako and Lup. "Well, I guess you put the 'hung' in 'hunger' there, don't you?"

John stares in Merle's direction for a moment, as if only just now noticing he's not alone in the room. Then he falls heavily into the nearest office chair with a delighted smile on his face. "Well! I suppose that goes to show I still have a lot to learn about you, Merle," he says.

"It's  _ almost _ like I'm not one of those billions of people you've absorbed," Merle snaps without any real heat. He's more annoyed with the fact that he allowed himself to be talked into removing his pants than at John's realization that he's a fully formed person and not just some caricature. But that might be the boner talking.

"Hmm. Perhaps." John shifts in the chair, arranging himself with his legs splayed and his erection proudly on display. One hand skins over his stomach and comes to rest at the base of his cock. Merle's eyes follow the motion hungrily. "Well, shall we take advantage of both of us being discrete entities in this place?"

"Don't gotta ask  _ me _ twice," Merle says. He hauls himself up into John's lap while John just watches. Merle settles himself, hooking his legs through the arms of the chair to keep himself anchored.

Once he's settled, John grips his hip and tugs him forward until their shafts are flush with each other. John's eyes have gone dark, his expression focused. The hand that rests at the base of his dick moves, his fingers wrap around both of their cocks, squeezes them together. A shudder runs through Merle, mirrored in John. Merle hisses an emphatic, " _ Fuck. _ "

"Agreed," John says. His even, almost glib tone is belied by the hitch in his breath. He strokes upward, agonizingly slow. "There are…  _ advantages _ to being separate entities," he drawls, "and this is one of them."

Merle groans half in pleasure as John runs his thumb over the head of his cock, half in frustration. "Why d'you have to talk so damn much?"

John huffs out a laugh. "Your visits are the only chance I get to do so," he says. His fingers wrap around their shafts and he thrusts up into his own hand, pulling gasps from them both. "Ah! Haha, besides, I did say I would tell you about myself."

"Talk about whatever you want, just do that again." He does, and Merle slumped forward to rest his forehead against John's shoulder. "Fuck." He feels John's breathless chuckle more than hears it. John is working out a slow, steady rhythm with his strokes and thrusts, while Merle tries to decide if he wants to wreck John's concentration or play along.

As if in response to Merle's thoughts, John chuckles again. "Did I tell you, Merle?" he asks, hot breath tickling at the back of Merle's neck. "Your ship—the  _ Starblaster, _ was it?—it's beautiful. So sleek and shiny. Like—like a tiny star in the darkness of the void. I see why you speak so fondly of it." With each breath, with each pause in the cadence of his speech, he thrusts up into his own hand. The friction and heat are delicious, and Merle has trouble processing the words as more than just idle noise.

John shivers under him, turns his head so that his lips brush Merle's ear. "You've said there are seven of you, but I can only see five. If—ah!—if you're here with me, where is your seventh?" His teeth graze Merle's earlobe as his nails dig into Merle's hip. "Ah, I'm so close, Merle. Hah, I don't feel anyone inside me who knows you well. Did your companion perish?" He nips at the skin just below Merle's ear. "Mmm, don't answer, I see it now. Give your mage-girl my condolences. Or—or not. By the time you see her, you'll both be alive won't you?"

Merle's pulse pounds but it's not just the arousal now. A thread of cold dread trickles through his chest and tightens around his heart. "You—" He gasps as John traces the shell of Merle's ear with his tongue.

"Who's that other one?" John asks. His voice is so low and hoarse from exertion. "Not your mage-girl, the one with the white hair. She's pacing. She's worried, she must be. Is she worried about  _ you? _ " He blows out a breath through Merle can't decide if it's supposed to be laughter or a sigh. "You'll have to let her know that I am taking as good care of you as you will allow. Though, given what I've learned, perhaps that won't reflect so well on me."

"I've already told her how… how much of a dick you are," Merle grinds out. He's nearing the edge, even as that finger of dread digs into him. He grabs hold of the back of the chair, hands to either side of John, grip right enough to make the leather creak. The casual way that John talks about his friends as if he knows them—as if he  _ cares _ —galls him, drives Merle to grind down on John and take the skin on his shoulder between his teeth.

"Good. Good to know." The hitch in John's breath, the subtle crack of his voice, neither gets lost on Merle as he bears down. "I'll keep that in mind when we meet. And that handsome fellow, the tall one with the sideburns? Mmm, I'm so close now. Tell me, is he a fighter? Will—hah—will he struggle when we come face to face? Would he fight to the death or will he cower?"

As he speaks, John works himself into a fever pitch, his movements matched measure for measure by Merle. The words are breathy but the implications are worse, and yet Merle can't stop. All he can do is bite down on John's shoulder and ride out the frenzy. John growls, "I'm so close, can you feel it?" And yes, he can, every muscle between them shaking as they rush toward that tantalizing metaphorical cliff together. Eager to throw each other over the side.

With a strangled cry, John goes taut and comes first. He keeps stroking them both through his orgasm, his come making his palm slick as he works both of their shafts. Once he's spent, he turns his attention solely to Merle. It's only a few moments more before Merle collapses on top of John, shaking and gasping for breath.

For a few long moments, neither of them moves or says a word. But John is the one to break the silence. "Hah. Thank you, Merle. I'd forgotten what that was like. We should do it again in the future."

Merle doesn't have enough energy to laugh, but he does make a vague sort of noise of assent.

"Glad you agree," John continues. "Unfortunately I had forgotten how disgusting things could be… after. So I believe our time together is about to come to an end."

"Oh, I see how it is," Merle grumbles. "'Wham, bam, thank you man!' Dick."

"I blew you, and I swallowed like a gentleman," John says so matter-of-fact that Merle has to lift his head up and stare. John's face is the picture of placidity.

"Fuck it," Merle says. "I got nothing. Just put me out of my misery."

John obliges.

Lucretia rushes to his side when he comes to, journal in hand. Before she can say anything, he raises a hand. "I know the drill," he assures her. "What'd I learn? That he can sort out the thoughts of the people he's eaten. And that he can see us, if we're flying too close. He knew the locals killed Barry."

"Anything else?" Lucretia presses once her pen has stopped its frantic scratching across the page. "Please, anything at all."

He thinks about what had just happened, about the things John had said and the things they'd done. What else had he learned? That he's playing with fire and that fire is convinced he's a masochist. Merle shakes his head. "Nothing else. But at least now we know that, right?"

Something flickers across Lucretia's face, too quickly for Merle to parse it out. Whatever it is leaves her features drawn. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Okay. Thank you, Merle. For doing this. And if… if you need to talk. About  _ anything. _ "

Which is one of the last things he wants to do. Ever. Merle pats her on the arm. "Thanks but no thanks. Let's go see where we are. Maybe this time we won't land on a Pan-forsaken shithole."

She follows him to the deck, but her eyes remain downcast and he thinks she might be clutching her journal just a little more tightly than normal.

*

They do it again in the future. Or, rather, the new routine goes a bit like this: Merle and John each answer a question, then, having dispensed with the formalities, they 'blow off some steam.' And, after the little death, Merle dies once they're done. It isn't exactly a comfortable arrangement, but somehow Merle ends up looking forward to their little exchanges. Especially now that John favors means other than fire to kill him. (Strangulation is most common, but occasionally John snaps his neck.)

A few meetings later, after a stint on a world with sentient plants warring with a race of bug-creatures, Merle falls heavily into his favored chair in the Parley Parlor. The only reason they'd managed to get the Light of Creation had been because Lucretia, Magnus, and Barry had sacrificed themselves in a breakneck relay to get it to the  _ Starblaster,  _ and Taako and Lup had stayed behind to sling spells at the insectoid hordes while Merle and Davenport had escaped.

Merle is  _ tired. _

John makes a  _ tsk  _ noise. "Why must you vex me like this, Merle?" he asks.

"Is that your question?" Merle snaps.

"Ah, I suppose it can be," John says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I can see you're in a bit of a state, even though you've clearly succeeded in your aims this time around."

"I must 'vex' you—" Merle held his fingers up in air-quotes, "because it isn't like I've got anything else going for me. I'm stuck on a ship with the last six people from my home, nowhere else to go, and the only thing I can think is, 'damn, guess I should  _ vex _ the asshole who took everything from me!'" By the time he's done, Merle is shouting and leaning almost across the table, as if that will somehow make him yell better.

John's gaze is cool, impassive. He stays in his chair, hands resting flat on the table in front of him. He tilts his head to one side as if deep in thought before he, too, rises. His fingers go to the cuff of one sleeve, unbutton it, and start rolling it up to his elbow. "It's clear that I've hit a nerve. That's fair. You've hit a nerve by hiding the Light from me. Why don't you ask me your question? Then we can discuss…  _ other _ matters."

Blessed Pan, John is the only person in existence who can make Merle feel self-conscious about his (highly justified) righteous anger. He continues to glare at John, but most of the initial fire is gone. "I just want to know what the hell you're getting out of this." Merle waves an arm to encompass this ridiculous situation in its entirety.

A sour expression puckers John's lips and he pauses halfway through rolling up his other sleeve. The sourness dissolves into a vicious smirk. "It isn't like I've got anything else going on, so I might as well  _ 'vex' _ —" he crooks his fingers in air-quotes and venom fairly drips from the word, "—the asshole who brought me here." He finishes rolling up his sleeve before letting his hands drop to his sides. "Though, perhaps, that's a bit reductive. I do enjoy our little games, and I enjoy the fact that  _ you _ enjoy them. The fact that they only end in your death… well, that's a plus."

"You're a sadistic dickwad."

"Guilty," John says with a cheerful shrug. "And what, then, does that make you? You  _ do _ keep visiting me, after all. One day, I'll hear you say it."

"Fuck you," Merle sneers, flipping John the bird.

Suddenly, John's at his side, even though Merle's eyes don't track the movement. One of John's hands grips the nape of his neck. "No," John growls, "I think I'd rather be the one fucking you."

He shoves Merle hard against the table, knocking the breath out of him and keeping him pinned with that one hand. The polished wood surface is cool under Merle's cheek, a stark contrast to the sudden flare of anger. Merle braces his hands on the table and tries to push himself up, only for John to gracelessly shove him back down again. Merle has to bite back a groan because—Pan help him—he will  _ not _ let John know he's enjoying this.

Instead, he glares daggers. John just smiles and leans down.

"Remember," he whispers into Merle's ear, "if you ever want this to end, just say the word and I'll make it quick."

That rankles even more than having his own words thrown back at him. As if he's too dumb to remember the rules of their engagement. As if he's too weak to handle what John's about to dish out. Merle breathes in through his nose, holds it for the count of five, then snarls, "Fuck. You."

John uses his other hand to pat Merle's shoulder. "That's the spirit."

He straightens, takes hold of Merle's wrists one at a time and twists Merle's arms up so that their uncomfortable position is what keeps him pinned to the table. Merle shifts, testing how much wiggle room he has before it goes from 'uncomfortable' to 'agonizing.' Finds that the line is a fine one indeed, which is fine. He doesn't have to see John's face to know the smug sort of expression he's surely wearing.

"Do you ever think about this in the times between our meetings, Merle?" John asks so nonchalantly. "Because I do. It's almost embarrassing how much of my not-insubstantial brain power I've devoted to you and our little meetings."

"You're free to stop at any time," Merle mumbles into the wood below his cheek.

John makes that  _ tsk _ noise again and jerks up on Merle's arms. Merle hisses through his teeth but refuses to vocalize anything more. "I thought we agreed we would both be honest here, Merle." There's a threat in John's tone and he's done that thing where he makes a particular word sound positively vulgar. This time, it's 'honest.' "Our arrangement won't work if we aren't being truthful with ourselves and each other. Tell me, even if you could stop thinking about this at any time,  _ would _ you?"

Merle says nothing, but that's answer enough. John eases up on his arms. "So, as you can see, it isn't so simple. I've spent quite a while thinking about you. About the things you've said, or haven't." He leans down again, letting much of his weight come to bear on Merle's back. His breathing is calm, even, but his breath is still warm against Merle's cheek. John lowers his voice so it's barely more than a husky whisper. "Do you ever think about that first time, Merle? When I described what I'd do if you let me fuck you?" 

Oh, yes. He does. Merle swallows, or tries to; his throat's gone dry.

"I said it wouldn't be gentle, nor would it be quick." The words send a shiver up Merle's spine. He definitely remembers that. Fuck, he's already hard and all John's done is say a handful of evocative words.

The hand not keeping Merle's arms pinned trails down Merle's side, stops at his waist, slides under him to unbutton Merle's fly. "I think we've considered this particular scenario for long enough, don't you?"

There isn't much Merle can say to that which isn't incriminating, and he's not about to give John any more fuel for this fire. John's hand slips under his waistband and his fingers wrap around the base of Merle's cock. "What do you say?" he asks. "Be honest."

Merle groans. There's no getting out of admitting that he wants this out loud. Not if he wants John to actually go through with it. "Fuck. Yes, all right? I've been thinking about it and I want you to stop  _ talking _ about it and  _ do _ it already. Happy?"

John hums. "Mmm, I would say that happiness is a little abstract at the moment. But satisfaction? That's well within reach." He proves his point by giving Merle's shaft a light squeeze.

Before Merle can react, John withdraws his hand and makes quick work of Merle's zipper.  One of John's legs wedges between Merle's, kicking his feet apart, and before he can take another breath, Merle finds his uniform slacks shoved roughly down his thighs.

Even though John had pulled an admission of desire from Merle didn't mean Merle planned to tolerate the treatment. He snarls and tries to kick John's leg away, but the height of the table and lack of leverage leaves him at a disadvantage. John keeps his knee between Merle's thighs and makes a disappointed sort of hum. "I suppose it was too much to expect that you be cooperative, wasn't it?"

"What," answers Merle, "you don't know me well enough to know I'm not going down without a fight?"

"I know you well enough to have seen you go down plenty," John retorts.

"Fuck you."

John wrenches Merle's arms into another painful position but stops short of the agonizing mark. " _ Tsk.  _ I thought we agreed that wasn't going to happen. I see that I will have to use some more extreme measures to have my way with you."

Merle has enough time to wonder what in the infernal plane John's talking about, but it isn't long. Pinned against the table as he is, he has no choice but to stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the dying sunlight. As he watches, an inky darkness builds on the ceiling, inching its way down and covering the windows in a thick ropes like jungle vines. The temperature in the room drops a few degrees, but that isn't the reason Merle shivers.

John's hand releases Merle's wrists, but it's replaced by something cold and unyielding as iron that twines itself around them. It holds his arms fast and holds him down as well as if John had put his full weight on Merle's back. The only point of contact left between the two of them is the John's knee holding Merle's thighs apart.

Merle manages to draw in a shaky breath. If he stops to pay attention, he knows he'll be able to feel the brush of dark leaves against his skin where his arms are being held. Fuck, he hadn't expected  _ that.  _ "Thought you said you used to be a public speaker, not some—some kind of plant warlock."

"I also said I'm legion, Merle," John says. The power he's channeling makes his voice sound distant, cold, and heavy with secrets. "I've picked up a thing or two about more than just fellatio."

The power twists and tears away Merle's slacks and winds around his ankles. A few questing tendrils of it curl around his calves, cool and implacable. Behind him, John's knee moves away and Merle hears the sound of a belt being undone and tossed carelessly to the floor. One of John's hands finds his hip (and oh gods is Merle ever glad that nothing they do here leaves lasting marks, or he's constantly have bruises from the way John grips him there). The other slithers around and rests at the base of his cock once more.

"Have you ever been taken like this, Merle?" John asks, lazily curling his fingers around Merle's shaft. "I'm afraid I don't know you well enough yet to tell on my own." He leans forward. His weight against Merle's back, added to the grip of his eldritch vines, is horrible and delicious. "I don't know you that well yet, but I'd  _ like _ to." And the word 'like' isn't cold at all. It's hot and hungry and Merle shudders under him because  _ oh gods. _

"For—for someone who wants to 'know' me, you sure are using your tongue the wrong way," Merle says, and he's proud of the way his voice doesn't waver. He's rewarded by a thick, syrupy chuckle that does  _ things _ to his already knotted up insides.

"Oh, Merle, I have other plans for my tongue this time." Something slick and cool and slides up one of Merle's thighs, and he tries (fails) to hold in the moan. John chuckles again, and something else brushes Merle's cheek like a curious finger. "I can know you with the rest of me while I use my tongue to help  _ you _ know  _ me. _ "

He dips his hand lower, rubs Merle's thigh where that slick vine has left a trail of fluid in its wake, takes a few moments to stroke Merle until his cock is just as slippery as the eldritch thing still sliding across Merle's skin. "Though," John says almost conversationally, "you never did answer me."

"Haven't gotten fucked by a warlock, no," Merle grinds out. It's easier to say that than to admit that he'd never done this before. Sure, he'd done other stuff (still has fond memories of that one lovely young man who'd taught him what 'rimming' was; and the first time a lady had used her fingers while going down on him had been an eye-opener; and plants were always a thing). But by Pan, he is not going to admit that he'd never actually been the one on the receiving end before.

"Well, aren't you in for a treat," John purrs. Merle squirms underneath him, not trying to get away exactly, but not able to hold himself still in the face of John's words.

John's hand, still slick with the eldritch fluid, slides across Merle's hip, up his thigh, stopping just short of his ass. "Remember, just say the word and this all ends," John tells him again, whispering like it's a secret. Like he knows Merle was just deflecting his question.

Merle growls, "Either shut up and do this or I will find a way to strangle you just so I don't have to hear you talking."

"Oh, Merle. You and I both know the parley won't let you do that,* John says, tone amused. "Besides, then neither of us would get what we want. But I appreciate your candor." He slips his hand between Merle's ass cheeks and thrusts two fingers into Merle's hole with no further warning.

To Merle's credit, he doesn't make any noise beyond a surprised grunt, but that's enough to encourage John to twist his fingers and pull another, baser sound from Merle's throat.

"It's been so long, Merle." John's voice is husky with something Merle can't quite name. Doesn't  _ want _ to name. "I can't remember the last time I've done this. It may not have even been me. There are so many multitudes and I know them all so completely. Like I want to know you."

His breath is so hot against Merle's ear and his fingers are moving in and out of Merle in slow, agonizing strokes and it's difficult to concentrate on John's words but Merle tries. The slick thing around his thigh creeps up, coils itself around Merle's painfully hard cock, draws out a moan from Merle. John keeps talking: "Intimacy like this pales in comparison. Nothing is closer than literally becoming one with another being. There is no greater kenning, Merle. You can't even imagine it."

John withdraws his fingers, but Merle doesn't have enough time to question the absence before he feels something much thicker prodding at his entrance; the tip of John's cock. There's a tense moment where they stay perfectly still. Merle sucks in a breath, holds it in anticipation. John thrusts forward. This time, Merle does cry out. It's more sensation than he's felt before: being filled, the hot friction, pleasure that's almost pain (or maybe it's the other way around).

Compared to his fingers, John's dick feels  _ massive _ , though Merle will never, ever let that thought slip past his teeth. He can't bite back the moan, though, or the hissed, emphatic, " _ Fuck! _ "

"That's the plan," John says, and may all the gods help him because Merle moans again at the dark, low way John murmurs the words in Merle's ear. He jerks his hips forward, driving himself deeper into Merle, the secretions from the eldritch vine offering some lubrication but Merle still feels the almost painful stretch.

He stops well before he's buried his full length in Merle's ass, though fuck if it still doesn't feel like too much. But he starts to pull back, a slow, languorous motion that's almost as terrible as the initial thrust. The hand that had been playing with Merle's ass finds the base of Merle's cock again, tangles with the tendril there. For a dazed moment, Merle is confused, but then John drives forward and strokes Merle's length with the same force as his own thrust and Merle damn near sees stars. John chuckles in his ear as if he can tell what effect he's having, and maybe he can. Merle's breath comes in a ragged gasp underneath him. 

"I want to  _ know you, _ Merle," John sighs as he rocks back. "Inside—" he thrusts again, driving himself even deeper, mirroring the movement with his hand again, "—and out." He punctuates the final syllable with a gentle squeeze of Merle's shaft. "I look forward to being able to pick through your thoughts. To understand you so completely that concepts such as 'lies' and 'honesty' are irrelevant."

Merle tries to laugh but it falls short and comes out a desperate moan. "Y'd just see all the times I thought you were a dickbag."

"I must take up a phenomenal amount of your thoughts, since you call me a dick so often."

"Sometimes I gotta—gotta go a whole year b'fore I can say it t' your face." Merle's voice is thick. 

John makes a noncommittal noise as he nuzzles at the side of Merle's neck. "I suppose that's fair," he says into the skin of Merle's jaw. "I spend much of our time not together fantasizing about what I'll do to you when we finally meet." And fuck, Merle shudders at that revelation.

He's so focused on John's words that John's next thrust takes him completely off-guard. He makes a strangled yelp that's caught somewhere between pleasure and shock. John pulls him through it by applying a bit of pressure with his teeth to the place where his neck meets his shoulder and lazily stroking him with the hand wrapped up with the eldritch tendril. The sensations are all different, all compound each other with their sweetness and strangeness. He's so  _ full, _ and not just from John's cock finally driven fully into him.

After a moment, John releases the skin between his teeth long enough to say, "Breathe, Merle. If you asphyxiate, all of this ends and I know you don't want that."

Merle gulps in a lungful of air, followed by another. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. Fuck. Even trying to steady himself with his breathing doesn't help the overwhelming sensations.

John only gives him enough time to catch another breath before he's moving again. Even though the picture he'd painted so long ago had involved him being ruthless, he starts off slow. The hand on Merle's cock disappears momentarily, then returns. On John's next thrust, it's obvious why; with the added lubricant, he bucks his hips forward, drives himself into Merle again. Again. Again. He pumps Merle's cock with his slicked hand, keeping impeccable time with his own thrusts.

Merle's not sure if it's the eldritch energy building in the room or if he's actually about to black out from the onslaught of sensation. John's other hand grabs Merle's hair and yanks back. The dark magic binding his arms eases just enough to let Merle to arch his spine and follow John's inexorable pull. He can't fight it, but he can at least fight the urge to make more noise than broken panting and a few grunts. There's no way he can give John that satisfaction, no matter how much he's enjoying this.

It doesn't seem to matter, though. Other than his own labored breathing, John seems infuriatingly inured to everything, which only doubles Merle's resolve not to make much sound. John is downright loquacious, letting his lips brush Merle's ear while he whispers, "Can you imagine it, Merle, when I finally catch you? Can you begin to comprehend the greatness of which you will finally be a part? Or would you rather I hold you apart so that we can continue our little games but with me as your host? This is only a small taste of what I contain. Just think for a moment what it would be like to be fully engulfed by my multitudes."

John nips at his earlobe. "I know you're close, Merle," he says, voice barely more than a hiss of breath. "I can feel you. In here. Out there. Just tell me where you are and we can end this farcical fantasy. We could make this reality. This is just a tiny sliver of who I am. Imagine what we could do with the fullness of myself at your disposal."

Oh, and Merle does imagine it, and he hates himself for letting a low keening sound escape his throat. Fuck. He's close and John knows it, and he drives Merle over the edge. Merle comes in John's hand while he imagines what the situation would be like with the entirety of the Hunger bent toward him.

He hisses through clenched teeth as he tries to slump forward, but John won't let him. His grip on Merle's hair tightens, and his teeth scrape at Merle's neck. "I didn't say that we're done, Merle," he murmurs below Merle's ear. "I told you, this wasn't going to be quick, didn't I? And I'm not a man to fail to…  _ fulfill _ his obligations."

And fulfill his obligations he does.

By the time John's done, he's left Merle a quivering heap in one of the boardroom chairs. The darkness recedes, dissipating like fog burned away by the morning sun. Or, in this case, the eternal sunset of the Parley Parlor. His one consolation, Merle thinks distantly, is that John is rumpled: his shirt is wrinkled, his slacks are stained with fluids Merle doesn't want to name, and his skin is shot through with inky black marks that must be a side effect of channeling so much energy from an Elder One for so long.

"That was… pleasant, wouldn't you say?" John says as he adjusts his shirtsleeves. It's not just the dying light casting shadows that make his eyes dark.

Merle grunts his agreement, not sure he can manage anything more coherent.

This does not deter John. He pours Merle a glass of water and presses it into Merle's hands. "Drink this." Merle can almost see the black in John's veins as it wiggles underneath his skin. His hands shake as he automatically raises the glass to his lips.

John cocks his head and trails his fingertips over the bruises scattered over Merle's neck. "Will these last, once we're done here?" he asks, and it's the blatant concern in the words that makes Merle flinch more than the sting of John's touch on the abused flesh.

Merle drains the glass of water and sets it on the table before he shakes his head.

"Good. Very good." John withdraws his hand, his fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt so he can shuck it off. The plain white undershirt fared much better, but he pulls it off over his head. With practiced motions, John folds the undershirt into a square and pours some of the water on it, leaving it mostly damp.

He kneels next to Merle's chair. Most of the eldritch energy has bled away, and now he looks winded. Merle can trace the smile lines near John's mouth if he wanted, now that they're close. "I'd apologize for making such a mess, but I dare say we both enjoyed it, yes?" He holds up the dampened cloth. "May I?"

Merle's not sure what John's asking for, but he nods.

All of John's motions are slow, deliberate. He reaches forward and runs the damp cloth over the bruises John's teeth left. The fabric of John's undershirt is soft, the water makes it cool, and Merle finds himself sighing with something like relief.

"You handled yourself very well, Merle," John says as he soothes the angry red marks. "I'll admit, I was concerned at first, but you continue to impress me." The cloth moves down Merle's chest as John talks, the movement still slow and non-threatening. "I feel like I understand you a bit better. And I hope that, perhaps, you are coming to understand me."

No, Merle thinks, he's understanding less and less these days, but he doesn't speak. Instead, he tries to clear his throat, and John pauses to provide another glass of water. Once Merle's had his fill, John wets down the cloth again.

"There are so few things that I enjoy, as such," he continues, now wiping down Merle's belly. There are bruises there, too, from being pressed into the edge of the table, but this is also where most of the mess begins. Fluids, both bodily and eldritch, coat much of his skin below the bruises from the table, and it's cleaning this mess that John seems focused on. "One day, when I've freed you from your mortality, you'll understand. Or perhaps not. I like to think that I will still be of interest to you once this particular game is over." The ghost of a smile passes over his lips, and he shakes his head.

The cloth is filthy, so John rinses it, folds it so the outside is once again clean, and starts wiping away the mess. His touch is gentle, especially around Merle's crotch and thighs; it's such a different beast from the way he'd been manhandling Merle only a bit ago. The cloth feels cold here, and Merle shivers as John works.

"I don't typically experience enjoyment as such," John says, head bowed, "but I do enjoy our time together. And I do try to make it enjoyable for you as well." He moves down to Merle's thighs, coated in the coagulating fluids from before. If he finds it as disgusting as Merle does, he makes no outward sign.

There's something oddly compelling about having John kneeling before him, about the way John's back curves as he scrapes away the gunk, about how soft his touch has become now that they aren't fucking. Merle sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. "Why are you doing this?" he croaks.

John pauses. Cocks his head to one side as he glances up to meet Merle's gaze. His eyes are no longer clouded with dark magic, only some emotion that Merle can't quite—doesn't want to—name. "Because this is how things are done."

"Never did it before. Usually just kill me 'cause you can't be bothered cleaning up a mess."

"Hmm." John rinses his undershirt again, but he rocks back on his heels. "Yes, in the past, but I've realized now how inappropriate that behavior was. I was… Hasty." He stands, his full height making him tower over Merle, though his shirtlessness combined with the evidence of his tiredness make him a less-than-imposing figure. "You've been ill-used, Merle," he says. "And it pains me to admit that I have been wrong. I said at the beginning that I want to know you, Merle, and that's still true. And the more I know, the more I realize that I should value our games a little more. I may miss them once they're done."

John leans forward, still as slow and careful as he's been while cleaning Merle up. His face stops mere inches away from Merle's before he closes his eyes and huffs out something that might be a laugh or might be a sigh. "It's strange." He leans forward the rest of the way so that his forehead touches Merle's. It's neither cool nor warm, matching Merle's temperature nearly perfectly. Merle's pulse jumps.

"I am multitudinous and yet still have things to learn." John pulls back just enough that he can tilt his head up and lay his lips on Merle's forehead. They're dry, almost chapped, and the contact is chaste.

A tide of emotion sends Merle's heart racing. There's no antagonism to this gesture. To  _ any _ of the gestures since John hefted Merle into this chair. There's only cool gentleness, almost kindness, and Merle can't help but respond to it, Pan take him.

That's not how this goes. John's gone off-script and Merle does the only thing he can think to do to fix this. With a sluggish tongue, Merle manages to wheeze, "Abra-ca-fuck-you."

John recoils as if Merle's slapped him. He says nothing, but Merle can see the hurt and confusion as plain as day.

It is, in fact, the last thing he sees before he dies.

*

Merle spends the next cycle largely alone. Lucretia tries to draw him out, tries to get him to say something—anything. But she's not as persistent as he is stubborn, and they find the Light of Creation just fine without him. When the time comes, Merle is no more sure of his thoughts than he was a year before, but he can tell by the look in Captain Davenport's eyes that there's no getting around invoking the parley.

The Parley Parlor is dimmer this time, as if the eternal sunset is finally marching forward. John sits with his chess set, and the only greeting he gives Merle is a slight lift of one brow. Merle pulls up a chair and sits on the other side of the board. John's chosen black, and it doesn't look like the white pieces are performing that well. The silence builds between them, thick and oppressive.

"Well?" says John, and Merle swears that he hears a note of bitterness in John's voice.

Merle is silent for a few moments more, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he speaks.

"Am I your friend?"


End file.
